


Silent Screams

by darkangel1211



Series: Dark Johnlock Fics [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Distressing imagery, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Monsters, Murder, Nightmares, Silent Hill 2, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Terminal Illnesses, dark au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3806653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel1211/pseuds/darkangel1211
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barely a two minute drive later, John spots a signpost on the right-hand side; it’s old and worn, lacking the coat of paint it desperately needs, but the nostalgia of seeing it again after so long is thick, bordering on cloying. The words gleam underneath his headlamps as he drives past, welcoming him back to Silent Hill.</p><p>IMPORTANT: Please read the author's note at the beginning for warnings and triggers before you read this.</p><p>**ON HOLD - 30/03/2016 - due to RL circs**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Screams

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters for BBC Sherlock, nor do I own the characters used from Konami's Silent Hill. I'm merely playing with them for my own amusement. 
> 
> Okay, so this was (and still is) a very bad idea on my part.
> 
> For anyone not familiar with the genre, this story (for the most part) takes place in Silent Hill. I strongly recommend that you look it up if you haven't already. For those who already know what Silent Hill is, you can safely guess what this story entails.
> 
> I have listed as much as I can in the tags to pre-warn people who are squeamish in any way, but I will reiterate them here.
> 
> This story contains:  
> \- Manipulation - both physical and mental  
> \- Stockholm Syndrome  
> \- Gore and violence  
> \- References to child molestation (not by Sherlock or John)  
> \- Dub-con, bordering on Non-Con  
> \- Suicide Attempts  
> \- Murder  
> \- Monsters and Demons doing monster and demon things, including sex with each other - I really cannot stress this enough  
> \- Terminal cancer diagnosis and death of a minor character (including graphic description of treatment and final degradation)
> 
> Please note that I am not condoning any of this behaviour in real life, nor am I an advocate. This is a work of fiction, first and foremost, and should be read as such.
> 
> So please, if ANY of this is triggery for you, DO NOT read this. I can't make it any clearer than that.
> 
> Lecture over.
> 
> (Are you still here?)
> 
> Onwards to Silent Hill and the horrors within! I hope you enjoy your stay!

The heat of the desert scorches John’s throat as he gasps short, panicked breaths, uncaring of the grains of sand he can feel sticking to his lips and tongue. Behind closed eyes, flashes of red throb in time with his left shoulder; the pain is excruciating in its intensity, the shredding of muscle a vivid memory as the bullet tore through him.

Twenty paces in front of him, McAllister is screaming for help.

Around him, John’s squad are scrambling to get him out. Quick and methodical, the way he’s taught them to be. Words drift through the shock; someone queries McAllister.

“You heard the Captain, soldier, now move it!”

A memory drifts into focus; of John applying pressure to McAllister’s groin to try and staunch the flow of blood.

_Femoral artery…_

Less than thirty seconds for a major arterial tear. The bullet hit McAllister at the perfect angle, ripping into the artery. Impossible to tourniquet something that’s already in pieces.

_“John?”_

A voice calls across the sand and he turns his head towards it, blinking through the haze until he can see McAllister. He tries to shift to block the sun from his eyes so he can see better, but his arms are being held down.

_“John, don’t leave me…”_

He tries to focus as his team bodily shift him into a stretcher, low to the ground to avoid the flurry of bullets they can hear popping over their heads. He can see McAllister now, the way he’s clutching at his own leg, his face wet with tears. 

No, wait… That’s not. It can’t be…

_Mary?_

Mary’s face glistens under the helmet where McAllister’s should be, a blond curl wrapped around her ear, her hair shining brightly like the sun.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave me.” Mary’s lips move, but she’s not shouting. The distance feels insurmountable, but he can hear her. _He can hear her_.

“Mary…”

John’s left arm is bound across his chest; he uses his right to reach across, watching as she reaches back, her fingers wet with blood.

“You promised me, John,” her eyes turning glacial as the last of her lifeblood drains from her. “You _promised!_ ”

₀⁰₀ SH ₀⁰₀

John wakes with Mary’s name on his lips, a mantra as he presses his hands to his eyes.

Sometimes it helps to block the images out.

More often than not, it does nothing at all.

He sits on his bed afterwards, his eyes fixed on the chest of drawers next to him. His fingers itch as he remembers the weight of it, the feel of the cool metal in his hands, but he doesn’t move.

₀⁰₀ SH ₀⁰₀

Two days pass since his nightmare, each day a blur of minutes and hours that he barely remembers. Mary’s face feels far away now, hidden in the back of his mind, but he knows she’s still there. She’s in his hands when they shake while he makes his tea; in his leg which cramps at the mere thought of her, making moving around his flat difficult.

He keeps eating, even when the food is tasteless, mechanically shovelling it into his mouth until it settles like lead in the pit of his stomach. He takes walks around the local park to get away from the grey walls of his flat, keeping his pace consistent as his lungs expand and contract with the cold London air, the harshness freezing his muscles and making his chest physically ache.

It’s a good thing to focus on, he thinks on one of his walks, taking another lungful of air and relishing its bite.

Breathing.

₀⁰₀ SH ₀⁰₀

Three days after his nightmare, John receives an envelope he doesn’t recognise; the postage is American and there isn’t a return-to-sender, but his home address is written in a feminine hand. Boyish in its own way, trying to be something it’s not, but that suits the letter’s writer perfectly. He stares at it numbly before shaking his head and tossing it to one side, unopened, where it sits on his bedside table for a week.

A week and one day pass and he can’t make up any more excuses for why he hasn’t opened her letter yet. He grabs the envelope and hobbles back to his seat, resting his cane against the armrest. Spends another minute looking at it before he picks up a leftover dinner knife, slicing a careful line along the seam with a hand that doesn’t tremble at all. He finds a letter, two airline tickets and no less than three hundred dollars in cash.

_What the hell?_

He takes out the letter and balances the envelope on his armrest. The paper she used is thin but still a good quality; her flowing script unfolds when he opens it and his eyes are immediately drawn to the date. It’s been nearly two weeks since this was written.

He rubs his face once with his hand, willing his tired eyes to focus as he begins to read.

**15th October 2010**

**Hi Johnny,**

**I bet you never tho** **ught you’d hear from me again, not after all this time. If you’ve actually read this and haven’t just binned it once it passed through your letter box… Thank you.**

**Listen, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for the funeral. I’m not going to make up anything to excuse why I couldn’t make it, but I wanted to let you know that I still care about you. I so badly wanted to talk to you after, but we’d shut each other out for so long and it felt like I never had the chance.**

**I know I could’ve been there for you if I hadn’t emigrated, but I don’t regret my decision to move. It felt like it was necessary for us to find peace. With ourselves mostly, so we could finally try to heal. So much has happened, Johnny.**

**You’re probably rolling your eyes right now, but I don’t care. I need to make sure that you know I still love you. For everything you’ve done for me.**

**Anyway, I’m not sending you this letter to go all bleeding hearts on you. I’m writing to let you know that I’m going to be out of town, so to speak.**

**Do you remember the town we used to visit when we were kids? It wasn’t anything special, but we used to go there all the time.**

**You must remember what it was like. It was so cheesy but we loved it because it was a holiday to us, right there next to the lake with the fog that never seemed to end.**

**That’s what I need now, Johnny. I need a holiday and I know, deep down inside, that you need it too.**

**Inside the envelope, you’ll find airline tickets to the state of Maine, Bangor International Airport, and some cash. It should be enough for a car hire so you can get to the town, and I’ve arranged for first-class on both flights for you.**

Some car hire. He can’t help but wonder how she obtained this much money and if she really has cleaned herself up for good this time.

**Obviously I have no way of knowing if you’ll come or not, but if you decide you want to meet, you’ll find me inside the town near our favourite restaurant.**

**I hope you’ll come, Johnny. I want to make amends and, most importantly, I miss you.**

**Your loving sister,**

**Harry**

₀⁰₀ SH ₀⁰₀

John leaves early on the thirty-first of October, wondering just what the hell he’s doing. He really has no business seeing a sister that didn’t even try to contact him after his injury in Afghanistan, let alone the funeral, but he believes her. He can’t say why, can’t even begin to fathom it, but he believes the damn letter he wishes she’d never sent and he can’t take that away from her. Not when it looks like she’s really trying this time.

All the prep has been taken care of for his time away. He’s left a message with his therapist to let her know he’s visiting relatives abroad and won’t be contactable; she tried to ring him after, but he never answered her calls.

His connecting flight arrives at Bangor International ten minutes before their scheduled landing, according to the pilot, not that this makes any difference to John. He looks outside the window and watches pale grey skies as the plane taxis to its final stop, the letter in his jacket pocket feeling far heavier than it should.

He didn’t bring any luggage so checking out is easy, taking less than an hour even with the amount of cash he has on him. He goes through the motions, checking he has his mobile, wallet and Harry’s letter, along with the overabundance of cash she decided to send him. Everything is in place.

The rental company are extremely helpful and John soon has the cheapest car he can afford for a three day contract. He asks the lady, Janet, who serves him for directions to Silent Hill.

“Silent Hill?” Janet asks, passing John the keys to his rental. “Near Toluca Lake?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” John says, taking the keys. “Have you got a map I could use?”

Janet turns to the drawers at the back of the office, rummaging through them before pulling out a map for the state of Maine. She opens it on the desk between them, finding Bangor International and pointing out the route that will take John straight to the town. “It’s about an hour and half drive,” she says, “but you’ve got a full tank so that’ll be more than enough for you to get there. You might have to follow a few diversions along the way but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thanks,” John says and begins to fold the map back up, giving Janet the money for it before he turns to leave.

“Seeing anyone there?” Janet asks, drawing John’s attention back to her.

John turns back, leaning heavily on his cane. “I’m visiting a relative.”

“Oh, that’ll be nice,” Janet says, standing up to see him out of the office. “The mist is heavy at this time of year and Silent Hill has always had an atmosphere about it. Just…” She pauses, her lips pursed. “Just watch your step out there, okay?”

John immediately wants to say that he manages just fine with his dodgy leg, thank you very much, but something about her tone stops him. He’s not actually sure if she’s referring to his leg at all. “What do you mean?”

Janet slightly leans over to one side, looking out the window of her office before stepping closer, her hands clasped in front of her. “I hear that it’s almost never sunny in Silent Hill,” she says, her voice lowered. “And people say that when the fog comes out… Well, strange things happen.”

John can’t help his intrigue. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she replies. “I’ve never been there. But you hear stories sometimes, you know?”

He doesn’t know whether or not to take her seriously, but any attempts to laugh it off are halted when he glances down at her hands.

Her knuckles are white with tension.

John nods his understanding and says thank you. Janet smiles and wishes him a safe journey.

If he notices that her smile didn’t reach her eyes, he doesn’t mention it. 

₀⁰₀ SH ₀⁰₀

The drive to Silent Hill takes a little longer than expected, but John knows when he starts getting close to the town. The entire area is covered in fog, shrouding his surroundings in a thick layer that he can barely see through. He remembers this from when they were children; the vast stretches of land that became hidden and mysterious as the lake guided the mist onto the town’s shores.

Further down the road he comes to a place he recognises. The observation deck, if his memory serves him. The car park is completely empty so he parks in the spot closest to the loos, switching off the engine and getting out of the car. The air is chilly as he walks up to the brick wall which separates the car park from the drop below, keeping his free hand wrapped around his middle to ward off the cold.

God, it’s been so long since he was last here. John leans on the wall as he looks across the open expanse, breathing in the fresh air and appreciating the silence that is so seldom found in London. Usually it’s possible to see the entirety of Toluca Lake from this point, but the fog is so thick that he can barely see the large trees which are in front of him, the sound of the water muffled by the fog.

He glances down at his watch and notes that he’s made good time; it’s just gone midday and his jet lag is minimal, largely due to the comfort of his flights. He shouldn’t have any trouble making it to the town from here.

Barely a two minute drive later, John spots a signpost on the right-hand side; it’s old and worn, lacking the coat of paint it desperately needs, but the nostalgia of seeing it again after so long is thick, bordering on cloying. The words gleam underneath his headlamps as he drives past, welcoming him back to Silent Hill.

 

Given the complete lack of traffic, he’s able to drive straight down a road called Nathan Avenue, pulling the car to halt when he reaches his first building. He notices a few of the letters are missing on the outside of the building, Ridgeview, he guesses, and the windows and doors have all been boarded up. The place looks derelict, like it hasn’t seen another soul for years, but that can’t be right…

He inches the car forward until he comes to a connecting road called Lindsey Street, trying to get his bearings, but the fog is so thick that he can barely see five yards before it becomes impossible. Further down Nathan Avenue, he passes what looks like a fire station and a church, but these are in much the same state as the Ridgeview building. They show no signs of repair for the damage they’ve taken or that they’ve even had contact with people for at least a decade.

John stops again and opens the map he bought with him, checking the route to make sure he hasn’t taken a wrong turn. Runs a finger along the main road from Bangor International all the way through to Silent Hill, the way Janet did, but it’s pretty much a straight line with a single turn-off that takes you directly to the town. It’s a clear route and there weren’t any of the diversions that Janet was talking about, so John knows he didn’t make a mistake.

He opens his side window to see if he can hear anything and the first thing that strikes him is how quiet it is. The fog goes a long way in dampening any sounds that happen within it, but John doesn’t ever remember Silent Hill being like this before. Yes, it’s been twenty-odd years since he last set foot here, but the town had been a thriving tourist destination back in its day and surely Harry would have let him know if it’d been abandoned in her letter.       

He comes to another road, Neely Street, on his left and turns down into it, keeping his pace slow as he looks around for anyone who may be able to help him. He soon comes to a familiar restaurant on a street corner and stops the car opposite the entrance, looking through the window to see if he can spot anyone inside.

The sign is still intact when he gets out to have a look around; Lucky Jade’s was a family favourite in his youth, packed full of hungry visitors, but it’s immediately obvious that there’s no one here. John hobbles up to the entrance and tries to wipe the glass on the door. His hand comes away with the grim and dirt which has accumulated and he grimaces, wiping his hand on his trousers.

The inside of the restaurant looks just as filthy as the windows. Any light that manages to penetrate the dirt casts the main seating area in an eerie glow, reflecting off of the tables and chairs. The window is doing a good job of distorting what little John can see, but this is a far cry from the smiling waitresses and good food that he remembers.

Lips pursing in a frown, he makes his way back to his rental and leans against the still-warm bonnet, pulling out his mobile to text Harry.

_Just arrived – are you on your way here? J_

The message bounces back.

He checks his connection; his phone is showing good signal strength so he tries to call her instead.

**We’re sorry but we are unable to connect your call. Please try again later.**

John tries again, redialling the number manually, but he still gets the same error message.

_What the hell?_

His therapist is the next obvious choice and he tries the number stored in his phone first, bringing the speaker up to his ear. The sound of static blares from his phone, whirring in on itself until it morphs into an intense screeching that has John thrusting it away from him. His phone is unresponsive when he tries to switch it off, the screen flashing white pulses in time with the static.

Barely ten seconds after it begins the noise cuts off, his phone quiet in his hand. John exhales a deep breath in the ensuing silence, realising that his heart is pounding. Janet’s last words come back to him and he swallows around a suddenly tight throat.

_When the fog comes out strange things happen…_

His phone has never made that sound before.

John shakes his head, telling himself to get a grip. He needs to keep following the main road until he finds another town, that’s all. He’s not gaining anything by staying here, other than spooking himself silly, and it’s stupidly obvious that Harry isn’t coming, never intended to be here. He curses his leg when it cramps as he gets back into the car, ruthlessly telling himself that he’s getting too old for this. Harry better have a good explanation when he gets a hold of her.

₀⁰₀ SH ₀⁰₀

John sits behind his steering wheel for what feels like forever. The engine rumbles in the background, but it does little to soothe the white noise in his ears, the rapid thump of his heartbeat when he realises he can’t get back to the turn off.

Nathan Avenue has a bridge which cuts across one of the main rivers that stream down into Toluca Lake; or at least it _had_.He switches off the car and gets out tostand at the edge of where the bridge used to be, looking down into the water below and trying to make it make sense. There isn’t any sign of rubble that he can see; he even kneels down to check the quality of the tarmac between his fingers. It’s strong and sturdy, refusing to crumble.

The walls on either side match the break in the road when he checks them; like the road, the bricks are a good quality and show no signs of wear. It’s almost like the bridge never existed, but he’d driven over it barely fifteen minutes ago. It was _here._

_But that’s impossible…_

Faced with no other option, John gets back into the car to head back to Silent Hill. The engine starts with a throbbing growl but immediately makes a sharp judder and stalls, spluttering to a halt. “Oh, you’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” he growls, turning the ignition off and counting to twenty before trying to turn the engine back on.

Nothing happens.

_Shit…_

John’s not a mechanic; he’s a doctor and he has no idea how to fix an engine. He runs a hand through his hair and huffs, closing his eyes in an attempt to think clearly.

_Phone call. Need to call for breakdown assistance._

With his buggered phone he has no option to call anyone, much less the rental company. He needs to find a working landline, but he doesn’t remember seeing one in the town. Having said that, he hadn’t needed one at the time, so it’s likely he missed it when he first arrived.

It provides little reassurance, but it’s the best he’s got. Locking the car, John keeps his cane close and heads back to Silent Hill. Inside his jacket pocket, his phone pulses faintly with static. 

₀⁰₀ SH ₀⁰₀

John reaches the main town after a while, pursing his lips in frustration when there isn’t a payphone in sight. “This is bloody ridiculous.” He stalks off in the direction of Lucky Jade’s, hoping that a local tourist attraction will have one nearby.

He’s roughly twenty yards away from the restaurant when he spots it.

There, in the middle of the road.

It’s a splatter of something, measuring about half a metre across, and almost black in colour. He walks over to it cautiously and crouches down, initially thinking that someone’s overfilled their fuel, but spilled fuel doesn’t look like this.

John rubs his index finger against the patch; it’s still wet. When he pulls back, his fingertip is smeared with crimson and has the strong scent of iron.

“Jesus…” Is this _blood?_

He looks around and spots another patch close by, smaller this time, heading into further into the town. John follows the unsteady trail as it meanders down the road, watching as it turns to long, thin lines and then droplets, like someone is trying to stopper the flow.

As he follows the trail, his phone begins to emit a crackling sound.

The fog, though thick, does little to cover up the sound of a person choking and John is two seconds away from rushing forward to help when he sees it. The writhing mass of flesh and bone, half hidden by the fog and bent low to the ground, the person facing away from him as they crouch over something. The blood trail leads directly towards the person, but John hesitates, his hands curling into fists as a shiver passes down his spine. In the back of his skull, his instincts are screaming at him. Something isn’t right here.

A moist, ripping sound echoes in the near silence, the person growling and jerking their head back as they tear into something on the road, followed by a distinct gnawing that John’s only ever heard once before. It’s the same noise the stray dog used to make when he gave it bones from the local butcher; the grating sound of teeth against bone as the dog chewed into its treat. 

Unbidden, his phone emits a piercing squeal and the person turns their head towards the direction of the sound, towards him. John gasps and stumbles back, automatically reaching for a gun that isn’t there when a rough snarl resounds in the air between them, unable to pull his eyes away.

A faceless head stares back, the remains of a human hand dropping from a zippered mouth. Sharp teeth part in a grimace, but that’s the only recognisable feature; it doesn’t have eyes, it can’t see him, but John knows it’s looking at him because he can feel it. It knows he’s here.

The creature drools a black fluid that it chokes on, spluttering and gasping, the skin a sickly white and covered in blood. Its torso writhes and contorts on stumbling legs as the creature struggles to its feet, a gaping black hole in its chest leaking a substance that spits and pops as it moves.

John can barely breathe when it starts making its way towards him.

_This… This can’t be real._

The creature is relentless, closing the distance between them with slow determination. The hole in its chest releases a spurt of hissing froth which runs down the torso and drips onto the ground, the road eaten away beneath the creature’s feet. The mouth opens again, the jaw locking and cracking as it emits a screeching wail of agony. John watches through horrified eyes as the hole in its chest begins to convulse.

_This is a dream… Just a dream… Just a dream…_

It doesn’t stop him from running.

John’s legs eat up the distance between him and the restaurant, his breath gasping in his chest as the creature releases a keening wail behind him. He doesn’t stop to look back as he reaches the restaurant, pulling at the door to find the bloody thing is locked.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

The steps are getting louder behind him. His fingers are fumbling but he continues to pull at the door, half a second away from bashing the glass in when he looks over his shoulder to see the creature is almost upon him. In his pocket, his mobile is screaming with static.

He barely ducks in time behind a parked car when a grey mist covers the door of the restaurant; it spits and hisses, eating the glass away.

It’s trying to kill him.

John stays crouched behind the car, tightening his mouth and breathing deeply. He curls his hands around his cane, praying that it won’t break on him.

The footsteps to start to round the back of the car and John leaves it till the last possible moment before he makes his move, uncurling to an upright position and swinging his cane in a broad arc towards the creature’s head. The creature screams at him, its body faltering under the impact as the end of John’s cane slams into its skull.

John hits it again. And again and again, aiming for the head every single time until the creature is on the ground and snarling, until his arms are aching and it feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest. Until the thing finally stops moving, blood pooling beneath the body, and he stumbles back, his legs trembling beneath him, his phone blessedly silent.

He exhales on a sob, covering his face with one hand, the other holding tightly onto his cane; he can’t stop shaking as he backs towards the restaurant. His legs buckle underneath him when his back meets the windows and he sinks to the ground, gasping in choked breaths with the adrenaline thick in his veins.

_What the hell is that thing? It’s not human. It can’t be…_

He looks at the metal in his hands, at the way it’s slightly bent in the middle, and realises that his leg isn’t hurting anymore.

“Having problems?”

John sucks in a startled breath, seeing a man leaning against the restaurant beside him. He scrambles to his feet, holding his cane out in front of him as he backs away; the stranger’s eyes follow him, eyes bright underneath a headful of dark curls. John’s never seen him before, but he’s human.

He’s _human._

“Did you..?” The words are heavy on his tongue, threatening to choke him. He swallows past them and looks back at the car; the creature is still there, lying on the ground where he left it. “Did you see that thing?” he asks, whispers, turning back to the stranger.

“See what?” The man takes out a cigarette and lights it, placing it between his lips and inhaling so the tip glows red.

“The… the monster.”  

The man exhales a puff of smoke, breathing it up into the atmosphere and closing his eyes at the first hit of nicotine. “Oh yes,” he says, as if he’s just realised what John’s talking about. “Quite often.”

John’s vision blurs threateningly for a moment and he rocks on his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. “Jesus Christ…”

 _Monsters don’t exist_ , his father told him; a much younger John Watson who was scared of the creatures lurking under his bed. _And monsters that don’t exist can’t hurt you._

Then what in God’s name is that thing?

“So which was it?”

“What?” John lifts his eyes from the creature reluctantly to see the man is giving him an expectant look. “What did you say?”

The man relights his cigarette, flicking the head of his zippo lighter back and forth. “Afghanistan or Iraq? Which one was it?”

Unbidden, John’s nightmare flashes before his eyes; of McAllister’s face as he bleeds out on the desert sand and the agony of his own throbbing shoulder, a wound that came close to killing him on its own.

That was almost a year ago.

_How..?_

The man raises an eyebrow at him. “Problem?”

John realises he hasn’t responded. “Afghanistan,” he says slowly, lowering his cane. “Sorry, how do you..?”

The man doesn’t explain; his eyes sweep John’s body curiously and John wonders what he’s looking at. “You’ve made a mess of your cane.”

John looks down at the warped metal in his hands. It’ll be useless for walking with now. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Hmmm.” The man takes another drag of his cigarette. Holds his breath, eyes fluttering shut, before gently exhaling.

John’s stomach tries to drop through his feet when he realises that the other man has just said. He tightens his grip on the cane, backing away another step. “‘Quite often’,” he says, repeating the words. “As in more than one?”

The man idly flicks ash from the tip of his cigarette. “Yes.”

_Christ…_

He forces himself to breathe deeply, calming the rapid beat of his heart. What the hell is he supposed to do now?

The man finishes his cigarette and flicks the dog-end away. Ashes spark on the ground, their embers bright against the pavement. “So what brings you to Silent Hill, John?”

_Oh God…_

“My sister,” John says, looking back at Lucky Jade’s. He tries to tell himself that she’s not here, but something tells him it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple.

 _Oh Jesus, Harry. I’m so sorry…_  

He turns away from the stranger and his hand drifts to the pocket where his sister’s letter is, feeling the paper crinkle beneath his fingers. He’s irrationally comforted by its presence. If she’s really here, he’ll find her. He _has_ to.

_So what brings you to Silent Hill, John…_

His breath freezes in his chest; he never gave the man his name.

“How do you know that?” he asks, turning back, but the other man is nowhere to be seen.

He does a full three-sixty turn but the fog hasn’t lessened, covering the man’s footfalls with an ease that is more than a little frustrating.

_Bloody hell._

**To be continued**


End file.
